


begin again

by leaveanote



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, New Year's Fluff, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, roach ships it and so does ciri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: For a long time now, it hasn’t been the solstice, or the first thaw, or any other such marking that commemorates a new year for him.Geralt’s years begin with Jaskier.At long last, he's decided he's got something to say about it.Three words or less.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 241





	begin again

**Author's Note:**

> just some soft new year's fluff for this fandom that's brought me a lot of joy this year <3

For a long time now, it hasn’t been the solstice, or the first thaw, or any other such marking that commemorates a new year for him.

Geralt’s years begin with Jaskier.

That first day, different each time, when they reconnect on the Path. That’s when the year begins. The few years without Jaskier seemed to pass in a meaner, colder blur. The moment Geralt sees him, it feels like a fresh start. It feels like breathing again. It feels like something taking root of Geralt, even when he didn’t realize he’d been floating. Something grounding, something growing, in that smile, in that hug, in that immediate, incessant chatter.

This is the first time he really noticed it.

All right, Ciri noticed it. A frost within him that isn’t there when Jaskier’s around, a sharpness—none of it directed at her, of course, but inward, at himself. 

And the fact that she could see it, well. Geralt’s made a decision.

So this year, for the first time, he’s not leaving their reunion to chance or vague plans. 

Ciri’s tucked safely away with Yen for a season, slightly earlier than usual, and Geralt finds himself leaning beneath a cove of birch trees, Roach grazing contentedly beside him. Just outside a particular town that happens to feature a particular barding competition which is supposed to welcome its participants this very evening. 

He’s been here since daybreak, just in case. Jaskier is actually  _ annoyingly  _ punctual about anything to do with his music.

Geralt watches the other competitors trickle in, bards of all ages and genders, in outfits that rival Jaskier’s for flamboyance, though none, Geralt thinks privately, wear them quite as well. Not for the first time, he wonders why Jaskier doesn’t make a more permanent home among this crowd. 

“Surely he’s had enough adventures with me to last him a lifetime worth of songs?” he mutters to Roach. She gives him an exasperated sort of whinny, and goes back to her grazing. 

Well. That’s what he’s here to figure out, after all. 

Geralt’s mind fills with a sort of frantic buzzing, as the day draws on. The old panics, anxieties, every fragment of self-doubt that’s stopped him up until now, his head brims with them as he keeps his eye focused on the road—

And then he senses it.

That familiar scent. Geralt feels Jaskier’s presence like a shift in the very air, coming not from the road he’s been looking at, but the town itself. 

Geralt turns, and there he is. Arms outstretched, eyes bright, clad in rich blue-green, an outfit not altogether too unlike the one he’d worn the day they’d first met. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, clearly happy to see him and also rather confused, and there it is. All of Geralt’s anxieties, all the buzzing melts away. He’s still fucking terrified of this, but it’s better, it’s just all  _ better,  _ with Jaskier around. He can feel that familiar ache inside him, pushing against every barrier he’s built up, begging to come to light. “What on earth are you doing here?”

And Geralt still feels that urge to make up an excuse, to say he’s just passing through, to push him away, again, but, no. Jaskier’s here. It’s a new year, at last. And no matter what the future holds, Geralt is going to start it off right.

“I came to find you,” Geralt says. He tilts his chin up the road. “Thought you’d be coming into town today.”

“Ah, yes, well.” Jaskier says, his eyes flickering down. He’s blushing, somewhat. “I arrived a bit early. I like the community, as it were.” 

Geralt feels a slight pang go through him, at that. 

“Of course,” he grunts. “Surprised you don’t spend more time following the barding competitions, during the year.”

Jaskier looks up at him, bewildered.

“Wh—oh,  _ please,  _ no, I quite get enough of them, thank you! I attend as much of these as I like, as much as I can  _ stand,  _ honestly, they’re lovely but it’s all a bit  _ much,  _ you know?” He flashes one of his smiles at Geralt. One of the good ones, that crinkles his sea-bright eyes at the corners. “There’s more important things to do. Like fight monsters!” He snorts, at Geralt’s raised eyebrow. “Or, watch you fight monsters!” 

“Mm.”

Jaskier’s smile softens, into something more intimate, with a hint of shadow behind it. Geralt furrows his brow.

“No, no—I just meant I get lonely, Geralt. Over the winters.” He shrugs. “Even when I return to Oxenfurt, or to see my family, it’s not—well, it’s not—”

_ It’s not you.  _ Jaskier doesn’t say it, but Geralt hears it anyway. He always has, every unspoken sentiment that’s clung to Jaskier’s tongue, every whispered wish. Every time Jaskier’s asked him about retiring, or what he wants, or if he’d ever come away to the coast. Geralt knows, what’s really being asked. He’s spent a long, long time telling himself it was a passing fancy, but it’s been half a lifetime, now. He’s spent a long, long time telling himself he doesn’t deserve something so soft and bright, but Ciri’s shown him that can’t possibly be true. 

“Anyway,” Jaskier continues. He clears his throat and digs in his pocket. “I just came out here because there were rumors there was a  _ witcher  _ at the edge of the village, with a rather spectacular horse, and well, I just.” He gives a crooked smile, pulling out a sugar cube. The warmth in Geralt’s stomach twists. Roach neighs happily, nuzzling Jaskier’s cheek before eating it out of his palm. “Rather hoped, I suppose.”

And that does it.

“You once told me,” Geralt says quietly, “that I smelled of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”

“And onion,” Jaskier adds, grinning at Roach, but he’s looking at Geralt curiously. “Suppose I was right about all of them, wasn’t I?”

“Did I?” Geralt grits out, through his teeth.

“What?” Jaskier’s petting Roach now, his fingers threading easily through her mane.

“Did I break your heart?”

Jaskier flinches so slightly a human would have missed it. He laughs, immediately going into the mode of guarded defense Geralt’s known so well since his stupid fucking apology, after the mountain. It felt inadequate then, and it still does, even if it got Jaskier traveling with him again.

“Amongst many others, I’m sure!” Jaskier laughs it off. 

“Jaskier. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Jaskier frowns at him, hands still in Roach’s mane. “You’ve said. Geralt, it’s been years. What’s really going on?” He narrows his eyes suspiciously. It’s very cute. Geralt’s seen it a thousand times, when he’s finished the last of the pie, or used all the hot water in the bath. Half a lifetime of ridiculous, domestic moments, and he’s somehow gotten this far without calling it what it is. “Or did you do something  _ else  _ that needs apologizing for?” 

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches.

“I think I’ve got a lot to apologize for.” He turns his eyes skyward, steeling himself. Roach pulls away from Jaskier to nudge his cheek with a huff, and Geralt takes a deep breath, giving her a solemn nod.

“Geralt?” 

“Just because I didn’t think I deserved the light you give me,” Geralt says slowly, “doesn’t mean I had the right to take it anyway, and give you so little in return.” Jaskier’s eyes widen. “I fucked up, with you. I’ve been fucking up, and the more I do the more I knew you deserved better. The more I tried to push you away, even though I—I knew. That wasn’t what you wanted.” Each word feels like Geralt’s shoveling through the frozen layers of dirt in his chest, making room for the bright thing inside him. It feels terribly, terrifyingly raw. It feels like everything Geralt had been trained never to do. It feels like breathing, freely, at long, long last. “I understand if it’s too late,” he continues, and Jaskier’s eyes are very bright now, his hands (gods, those hands) worrying the hem of his doublet. “But, well. It’s the new year. The world’s ended a hundred times since I pushed you away. It might end a hundred more, in this year alone! And since we survived this long. I just had to tell you. If you let me, I swear to you, Jaskier.” Geralt swallows, and looks him right in the eye. “I will never break your heart again.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, after a beat. He’s breathless, and he smells of sunlight and fresh-tilled soil. He smells the way he always does, when he’s with Geralt. He smells like he’s in love. “Geralt, what are you saying?”

“No need to reciprocate, bard,” Geralt murmurs. “No pressure. Three words or less, was it? That’s what you asked of me, wasn’t it, the day we met? I’ve got three words for you.” And he feels himself grinning, even over the wild race of his heartbeat and Jaskier’s, the growing warmth inside him taking root, hurrying to come to light. 

Jaskier steps closer, disbelief and hope warring in his expression.

“You’d better not be fucking with me, Geralt, I swear to fucking—”

Geralt kisses him. 

After all his agonizing, amid all his self-loathing, it is, it turns out, the most natural thing in the world, to close the space between him and his very best friend. He brushes his mouth to Jaskier’s, and Jaskier only takes one surprised breath before flinging his arms about Geralt and kissing him back so hard and so hungry, Geralt nearly topples.

Geralt  _ marvels  _ at it, at how right it feels. He pulls off his gloves without breaking the kiss, and then his hands are buried in those soft, soil-colored curls, and Jaskier makes a broken, beautiful sound into his mouth and wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist, tugging him close, keeping them steady.

“I love you,” Geralt says, at last, because he realizes he somehow hasn’t, yet. “Those. Er. Those were the three words. Shit, I was meant to do that first.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head, a tinkling laugh catching in his lovely throat. Geralt buries his face there, in the crook where it meets his shoulder, and Jaskier gasps and tilts his head to let him at it.

“Got it right when I practised with Roach,” Geralt growls. He huffs a sigh, though he can’t be too displeased with himself when this is the turnout. “It was gonna be _romantic.”_

“Oh,” Jaskier says. He takes Geralt’s face in his hands and kisses him again, and it’s so  _ good,  _ Geralt can’t believe he actually gets to do this, now. “Oh, darling. It  _ was.” _

Geralt grins, and purrs. 

Jaskier kisses him, and says it back. Jaskier kisses him, and tells him again and again what he’s been telling him for years, in the tender way he patches Geralt’s wounds, in the songs he writes that makes the world a safer place for Geralt to walk, in every smile, in every shared sunset, in every time he returns to Geralt and the year begins anew. 

This time, no matter what the year holds, Geralt knows he can weather it, because they’ll face it together.

“I love you,” Jaskier whispers into his mouth, and Geralt is finally ready to hear it, finally ready to say it back, finally ready to love him the way he deserves to be loved. 

“I love you,” Geralt replies, and the warmth inside him bursts at last through its frozen soil. It takes the shape, perhaps, of the bright peek of a buttercup, there in the very center of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [welcomemysentence](https://welcomemysentence.tumblr.com/)


End file.
